Tag: parentlock

heurtebizzz:

They did not celebrate their first anniversary.

That day in January 2011, they were busy solving a case, chasing after and catching a criminal. Death came close that day, nearly grazing them with its calming touch, but they didn’t even notice.

They did not celebrate their second anniversary because by that moment in January 2012,  there wasn’t “them” anymore. Or at least that was what John had believed at the time.

John did come to the cemetery that night. He brought a bottle of scotch along and almost cried himself to sleep by Sherlock’s tombstone, drunk and desperate. It started raining, inevitably, so he had to get up and leave but not before his hair, coat and shoes got thoroughly soaked and the levels of red cells in his scotch were dangerously low, prompting one of the worst hangovers the next morning. Not that John cared much, really.

They did not celebrate their third anniversary because “them” had not yet been reconstituted.

John returned to the cemetery once more, however.

No scotch this time, but he did have a company. Standing in front of Sherlock’s grave, and holding onto Mary’s hand as if it were a lifeline, he tried his best to let go. That’s why he brought her along: in an earnest effort to learn to trust someone again, to allow himself relax and forget, to move on and start over. Needless to say all and every one of those attempts proved ridiculously futile very soon.

They did not celebrate their fourth anniversary still. That time around, in January 2014, everyone had been way too busy and exhilarated, what with Sherlock being back from the dead (John could not have yet forgiven him, despite what he said in that train car) and John and Mary planning their wedding. Oh happy days. Oh good times. Oh naive thoughts. 

Everyone was even busier the next year, when little Rosie was born, and Sherlock was still quietly recovering from yet another barely missed encounter with pain, loss, exile, torture, and, quite possibly, death that his second voyage to Eastern Europe would have definitely warranted. All was fine, and no one remembered about their fifth anniversary.

All was not fine one year later, yet a possibility that sometimes maybe things could be fine again was shimmering, bleakly, on the horizon, like a silvery mirage in a blazing dessert.

“You know,” John said, “I think I had run into Stamford right here on this day six years ago.”

They were walking in a park, among the trees. Giggling and chatting to herself in a language only she could understand, Rosie was greeting every sneaky squirrel and fat pigeon from her stroller. Squirells and pigeons, as rude as they were, did not always return the salutations.

Sherlock felt an odd sensation of blood raising to his face, his heart skipping a beat.

“Excellent memory, John, as always,” was all he said in response.

The silence that followed was familiar and easy. John chuckled and took Sherlock’s hand.

“Perhaps, we should celebrate, hm?”

“I see no reason as to why not.”

From then on, they celebrated every year.